So saying, he fell upon his face and died. With a heavy heart Roland turned from his fallen comrade and looked about for his valiant rear guard. Only two men were left beside himself. Turpin the Archbishop, Count Gaulter and Roland set themselves back to back while the pagans ran upon them in a multitude. Twenty men Roland slew, Count Gaulter six, and Turpin five. Then another charge of a thousand horsemen throwing spears and javelins bore down upon them. Count Gaulter fell at the first charge, and the archbishop's horse was killed; and there upon the ground Turpin lay with four wounds upon his forehead and four upon his breast. Yet strange to say in those fearful charges Roland got never a wound, although in his broken temples his brain was parting asunder, and the pain was more than he could bear. Once more he winded his feeble horn, and Charles heard it as he came with his army to the relief of the rear guard. "Spare not spur nor steed for Roland's sake. I hear the sighing of his horn and know that he is in a last distress. Sound all our clarions loud and long." The mighty mountains tossed the sound from peak to peak and carried it down into the valley of Roncesvalles where the pagans heard the echoes and knew that Charles was approaching for revenge. "There is but one man more to slay," they cried. "Let us slaughter him and flee." Then four hundred of the mounted Moslems charged at Roland, flinging their long javelins but venturing not to approach within reach of his sword, for they thought no man born of woman could slay this Roland. Veillantif dropped down dead, and Roland, his armor pierced with spear points, fell beneath him with a last great "Montjoy." Spent with the fall, he lay there in a swoon, though not a single spear had touched his body. When the pagans looked on him they thought him dead, and fled through the pass, leaving the gloomy field in possession of the dead and wounded. When the spirit of Roland came back from its swoon he looked about him and saw that the pagans had fled. With great pain he drew himself from beneath his horse and staggered to his feet, for scarcely could he stand from the pain beating in his temples. He dragged his bruised and weary body, searching everywhere among the slain. Round about each Christian lay a heap of pagan slain, and as Roland's eye wandered o'er the bloody field he said, "Charles will see that the rear guard has done its duty." At last he found where Oliver lay, and lifting the body tenderly in his arms, he said, "Comrade dear, ever wast thou a friend to me, kind and gentle. No better warrior ever broke a spear or wielded a sword. Now do I repent the only time that I failed to heed thy counsel. God rest thy soul. A sweeter friend and truer comrade no man ever had."